


Piano e Violino

by fondofit



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Flirting, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 10:57:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18134846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fondofit/pseuds/fondofit
Summary: Music can soothe anyone’s soul. For Antonio, music is a balm to his heart.





	Piano e Violino

**Author's Note:**

> Posting my self-indulgent rare pair finally. I Hope you enjoy it as much as I had fun writing it!

Antonio Salieri was a loner. He would prefer to stay away from the other servants; away from the questioning stares and assumptions. As an alter ego, he would only assume that the majority of people thought negatively of him. The reigning assumption that he was the one so jealous that he concocted a plot to kill Mozart. 

So at three in the morning, he leaves his room in Chaldea to wander aimlessly towards wherever his feet take him. He feels the restless need to move about the building but does not want be bothered by anyone at the same time.

With a turn down this hall and an opposite turn down the next, it is not long until he finds himself in the kitchens. The cafeteria seats at this time were devoid of any sort of life, the sterile cleanliness of the room allowing him to let go of his anxieties. He makes his way to the stove to make himself a cup of tea. It’s a simple task, something he could do and focus on in the meantime until his raging thoughts subside.

He wishes he could just fall asleep like any other servant here in Chaldea.

As he waits for the water to boil, he thinks back to when he watched Mozart drink himself silly in Marie’s presence. They had been laughing as he had hummed a light tune and then suddenly dropped onto a large fainting couch in her extended boudoir with laughter and tears in his eyes. When the laughing subsided between Mozart and Marie, Antonio had realized the man had fallen asleep in a near seamless drunken snooze. Marie had laughed with a sigh, her eyes betraying a sadness that only betrayed feelings between old friends, before taking a large blanket and draping it over Mozart’s body. 

She turns to Antonio, her soft voice causing him to stand in attention. “Would you like to stay as well?”

Antonio wasn’t quite sure he had heard her correctly. So instead he stood from his chair on the other side of the room as he sputtered an excuse to leave as fast as he could.

Marie never mentions the evening and all Mozart recalls, when asked, was the small performance he played before passing out. Antonio is thankful for the Princess’s discretion, but he can’t help the lingering regret every time he thinks back to that night. He wants to be a part of their joy and feel worthy of their company, but his entire being fights against it.

He knows somewhere in his heart that he’s worthy of being cared for. That his mark in history is what led him to be remembered as he was; a talented man with a legacy of teaching some of the greatest composers of Europe. People respected him, followed him as a mentor, he couldn’t fault the rumors that spread decades later. Mozart was an “artist.” He was young, popular and different. High society tended to gravitate towards those who catered to them and their follies.

These restless thoughts are what leads him to where he is now. Standing in a kitchen in the wee hours of the morning, picking out a tea. Antonio decides on a lemon-mint blend, something warm, light, and soothing to get him through the rest of the night. Once the water is done, simmering enough to start the whistling mechanism to scream, he takes the kettle and pours the water over the measured tea. It’s when he’s about to put down the spoon he had in hand he hears the door to the kitchens close and hears footsteps coming towards where he currently stood to wait for his tea to finish steeping.

He watches the doorway, on edge until he sees the familiar face of Sherlock Holmes coming through with a look of surprise written on his face.

“Oh! I thought it was you,” Sherlock says matter of factly. Antonio isn’t about to ask how he came to that conclusion, but he knew to make sure not to make himself so obvious next time. “I wasn’t sure if I wanted to deal with anyone else at this moment, but it can’t be helped in the end.”

There’s a long pause before Antonio answers with, “Ah, I see.” 

He isn’t exactly sure if that was the right answer to that statement, but it doesn’t look like Sherlock expects him to respond either.

“Tea tonight? I would have expected something a little... harder.”

“I’d rather not fall into that vice if at all possible,” Antonio replies, carefully taking out the steeped tea leaves with a spoon in hand. 

Sherlock nods as he busies himself in the refrigerator. It’s weird, seeing a servant go out of its way for food, but he can understand the innate urge to feed one’s self. Especially if it’s for some sort of late-night comfort. Antonio had no place to judge others. 

“I was feeling a bit peckish this evening. I have a feeling that something big is coming that I just can’t shake.”

“Hm… “

“That’s not exactly why you’re here though, Maestro Salieri. A tea to soothe, the light tapping of your fingers, the darkening bags under your eyes - I know a person who is having sleep trouble from a meter away.”

Sherlock finds himself a small snack of cheese and fruit as Antonio brings the tea to his lips. 

“This would also include you as well, Signor Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s lips quirk into a smile as he pops a grape into his mouth. 

“Quite astute of you.”

“I am an amateur compared to your legendary mastery of reading people. But I must admit late solitary nights welcome me more than bright busy days.”

“The quiet helps, doesn’t it?”

Antonio nods as he takes another sip; the tea and the current chatter doesn’t exactly help him rest, but it takes his mind off of wayward thoughts that he would be drowning in if he were alone. 

“The polite thing for me to do would be to ask if you want me to leave you to your own musings, but we all know I am nothing if not blunt to the point of being rude. Would you mind if we took our late night musings to somewhere more inviting? I’d invite you to my room, though that may be a little too forward.”

“Forward?” 

The question is out of his mouth before he realizes the dual meaning in Sherlock’s invitation. Antonio is at a loss for words at that moment, his face turning a beet red as he tries to quickly quell the embarrassment washing over him. Sherlock, surprisingly, looks barely affected by the particular wording and instead pops another grape into his mouth.

“I-I see,” Antonio stutters as his eyes follow another grape as it slides between the other man’s lips. 

Sherlock shrugs, finishing off the grapes left on the stem in his hand. 

“I suppose innuendo is not your forte?”

“I did not expect it,” Antonio says with a wry smile. “Even when one is- _knows_ Mozart as I do.”

“I can only imagine... But that hardly answers my first question. Would you care to join me?”

Antonio thinks it over. The only thing really keeping him from following the detective was the abundance of doubts within his own mind. Sherlock was intimidating, being able to pick apart anything with just a glance of his analytical eye. It was no wonder he was a ruler. 

“I believe I will, signor.”

–-

The walk to Sherlock’s abode was uneventful other than the clacking of their shoes against the floor. Sherlock seems to glance in Antonio’s direction every now and again as if to make sure he hadn’t decided to abandon him on the trek over. With a prompt stop, Antonio freezes in his tracks. He never knew the exact location of Sherlock’s room, but he can say for sure that this isn’t it.

It was one of the control rooms.

“Excuse me, but-”

Sherlock chuckles a little in the back of his throat as he turns to Antonio. 

“I decided to make a detour. We have what we need here anyway,” He steps forward to open the door and with a sweep of his arm he says, “After you, Maestro.”

The first thing that catches Antonio’s eye when he enters the room is the common looking parlor piano standing against the wall. He could feel his fingers itch as his eyes are drawn to the gleam of the polished ivory keys. It looks to be in good condition and he can only hope that he would be allowed to play it.

“Ah, I see you’ve spotted it. Go on,” Sherlock says with a wave of his hand. “Give it a try.”

Antonio’s feet lead him to the small bench. The piano was so compact, but with a light press of his finger against the keys, the sound it made was just as crisp. It was far from the sound of a grand piano, but this could potentially fill the empty void in his heart he had felt since coming to Chaldea. He sits at the bench, straightens his back and plays a basic C chord. 

It sounds overwhelmingly _good_.

He begins to run his fingers up to play a simple B flat scale, to get a feel of how the keys work and how the sound echoes within the room. 

It’s quite satisfactory for such a compact version of the instrument he used to make his living.

“Is it to your liking?”

Sherlock’s voice cuts through the air, causing Antonio to turn his attention to him. He was lost in that musical moment again. Forgetting how rude he had been to the man who invited him to his room.

“Yes, very much so.”

“Wonderful. Now, may you hit an A for me please?” 

Sherlock isn’t facing him at that moment, which Antonio finds odd until the man turns around. Within his hands is a violin; polished wood with its strings strung up tightly. There was nothing extravagant about it, but Sherlock still handles it with certain care only given to precious items.

“Not as perfect as my original Stradi, but in times like these, there is more to worry about. An A, if you please.”

Antonio’s finger presses the white key down with ease and a crisp noise filles the room; a single pitch to tune the violin with. The length of the bow being dragged over the strings of the instrument was at first a little flat, but with a few minor twists of the peg, the note quit wavering out of tune.

Antonio waits, listening with a skilled ear as Sherlock continues to tune each string. 

With a satisfied hum, Sherlock runs his bow over the strings in a quick scale, smiling in satisfaction when each note plays in tune. He turns towards Antonio, his bow at the ready as he taps his toe to count the first couple beats of time. When the notes hit the air, Antonio closes his eyes in thought. 

He knows this song. 

The violin carries the melody well enough on its own, but Antonio lets his fingers take over, allowing the piano to chime in. The harmonizing notes wash over him; engulfing him in the music created by his own mind. It’s like a balm on his tumultuous heart. The agony of being forgotten and unknown subsides making way for feelings of gratefulness and love. 

His fingers remember his _Allegro_ , the piano parts making way for the string’s melody. A single violin doesn’t make up for a full string orchestra, but he can envision them all there; the viola, the cello, and the bass. He can feel the outpouring of emotion as his fingers hit the last few measures of what he knows is left of the song. The violin joins in as the notes slow into a soft end.

“My word…” Antonio murmurs with an exhale. His fingers were itching to continue, to have the music flow through him once again and clear his agitated mind.

“I dare say that was quite invigorating. It’s not every day you can play with the creator of a piece themselves.” 

Antonio turns to Sherlock, his heart pounding, he could feel that rush flow through him once again. If he could keep that feeling to fill the emptiness of having no purpose behind…

“Would you,” his voice falters just slightly as Antonio puts his thoughts in order. “Would you mind if we played again?”

Sherlock’s expression went from amused to gleeful as he places the violin once again under his chin. 

“How could I say no to such a remarkable man such as yourself?” 

Antonio exhales with a satisfied smile of his own. He turns back to the piano and starts something different. Something that'd been crawling through his mind since arriving at Chaldea. It’s nothing known to anyone but himself, but Sherlock, amazingly, picks up on the melody and nuances throughout the piece. 

If the man could read and deduce a person’s motives just by looking at them; Antonio had his suspicions that Sherlock could also play music in the same way. What came of the song was a soulful theme that Sherlock beautifully adds to. 

They end with a mutual decrescendo that leads to silence. Antonio feels his heart soar. The feeling much more real than the hate and anger that runs through him often.

He stands, words rushing through his mind until he turns to step towards Sherlock. The man’s fine features were looking at him fondly, as one would be proud of a young child for finishing a task. Antonio doesn’t mind.

Instead, he brings both of his hands up to run his fingers over the others vest lapels. They smooth over the cloth, pushing any wrinkles out before running his fingers to cup the other man’s face.

“Grazie, detective. You are a great help. More than you could know.”

“Mmm, I’m glad to have been of assistance. It’s not a common opportunity to be able to play with other music lovers and a grand composer at that.”

Antonio nods and moves closer, the face cupped in his hands stays still. He wonders what he’s doing before whispering, “Do you mind if I?”

Sherlock tilts his head and meets the words with a light brush of his lips. Antonio reciprocates with light pressure, neatly humming as the warmth he felt earlier spread throughout him once again. 

It was a simple moment before they broke apart. Antonio let his hands glide back down to Sherlock’s lapels before releasing the other man completely. 

“We should do this again,” he grumbles as the comfort of the moment finally dissipates. 

With a grin, Sherlock brushes a hand through Antonio’s hair before pulling him close to being their foreheads together. 

“It would be my pleasure.”


End file.
